


Haunted Past

by phoenixreal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Agoraphobia, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF John Watson, Domestic Violence, Hapnophobia, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Object Penetration, Past Drug Use, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Sexual Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:53:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixreal/pseuds/phoenixreal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The past comes to haunt Sherlock on a tough case in the form of an old "friend". Sherlock wants nothing to do with him, but he's not taking no for an answer. </p><p>Warnings: mentions of past drug use, prostitution, non-con, and child abuse. Future Lemons if story keeps going, current non-con, eventual Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On The Case

Lestrade simply stood back and watched, as usual. There were snorts of disdain from Donavan and Anderson, and he chose to ignore them. He was always fascinated by the way the arrogant bastard worked. John, as usual, struggled to keep up with the detective's racing mind. His brain, it seemed, was working faster than his mouth could keep up because he kept starting and stopping thoughts, leaving John and everyone else in a state of confusion.

Truth be known, the case was not clear to Sherlock, which was why his train of thought kept shifting and changing. He'd put the clues together, but they didn't fit right. Finally he kneeled beside the body with an exasperated sigh.

"Sherlock, what is it? Find something?" asked John.

He pressed his lips together in a thin line. "No. That's the problem. This is…staged."

He stood up, looking around. "Everything in here, it doesn't add up. It's like someone put all these random clues in here just to make it not make sense…" he said. "Nothing….nothing fits. The clues are contradictory, even you must see that!"

John nodded, looking around. "I've gotta admit, I'm no Sherlock, but he's right. The lamp looks like it was broken on purpose, the body has defensive wounds on one hand, but not the other, there's just no consistency…"

"I see I managed to draw the best to my hotel," came a voice from the doorway, and if John hadn't seen it, he wouldn't believe it. Sherlock froze, eyes wide, and turned slowly to face the man who came striding in through the hotel room.

Lestrade frowned. "Who are you? This is a crime scene, you can't just walk in."

"Well, it is my hotel, after all, and when I heard Sherly here had shown up, I was just dying to see him work again," he said with a grin.

He was tall, easily six seven or more, and an easy two fifty with a broad chest and well-muscled frame. A mop of tidy, business cut blonde hair and a thick goatee and moustache. Piercing blue eyes peered from under the heavy brows. And he was staring at Sherlock in a way that John didn't particularly care for, his warning bells all going off at once.

John caught the set of Sherlock's jaw. "Garrett," he said finally. "Go away. I can't think with your thinking in the room. You're worse than Anderson."

He turned his back on him. Garrett (Garrett Turbine, actually, owner and operator of the hotel they were in) smiled. "S'okay Sherly, I'll just stand back and watch."

Sherlock turned and glared at him. "Do not call me that, Garrett."

The man pouted. "Sherly, come on, you can't tell me you forgot about me so easily?"

Sherlock growled in frustration then. "Shut up if you're going to be in here."

Garrett just smiled and leaned against the wall, and John noticed the predatory gaze as he followed him around the room. More than that, Sherlock quit speaking out loud. Finally he huffed in frustration, running his hand through his curly hair.

"Aw, Sherly, gotcha stumped? Must be a tough one, huh?" Garrett said with a grin.

Sherlock fixed him with a withering look. Garrett's smile widened. "Oh, I know, I guess you're missing something, aren't you, sweetie?"

Sherlock frowned and then his eyes widened and he shook his head. "Don't go there, Garrett. Don't you fucking dare."

To say that the room when quiet was an understatement. Generally, John was chastised for cursing by Sherlock. To hear him curse at someone was…strange to say the least.

"What, Sherly? Don't tell me, oh my God, really?" Garrett leaned forward and grinned broadly. "No wonder you're off your game, loverboy. You aren't giving yourself powered pep anymore, huh? Could fix it, for a price, you know, like we used to do, Sherly. Maybe a little could go a long way to solving your mystery here…"

"Shut up!" Sherlock was practically vibrating with the tension. "Garrett, fuck you."

With that, he swirled out of the room pushing past the towering man, and John went after him. Garrett caught him on the arm though, and John looked up, giving him the same grin. "He'll do just about anything for a fix, you know that right? God, how many times I fucked him into oblivion for an ounce or two…"

John's eyes went wide as he ripped his arm out of the man's bruising grip and ran from the room. John found him outside the front doors sitting on the sidewalk, knees pulled to his chest and head buried in his arms.

"Sherlock?" he asked, kneeling beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder. He flinched but didn't move away. He looked up at John, eyes cloudy. "Hey, don't worry about him, he's a prick."

Sherlock nodded. "I thought I left that life behind," he said solemnly.

"Where'd you know him from?" John asked, sitting beside him on the cool concrete.

"Uni. Before Lestrade, before you, you know. Before I figured out how to live without the uppers and downers," he said, looking up thoughtfully. "I…I did a lot of things back then. Mycroft cut off the money I could take out of the trust fund because he knew I was using, so I had to get things any way I could. It started so simple, just to get some sleep, you know? Simple, logical. I needed sleep, it helped me sleep. But my brilliant mind couldn't manage to put together that addiction would follow, and then I needed something to wake up in the morning because I was so strung out from the night before. God, John, that was so long ago, and I wasn't ready for him, or anyone from then, to come back around."

John nodded, rubbing his back. "Come on, let Lestrade deal with him. Let's get you home."

-Crime Scene-

With the revelation that the man before him used to provide Sherlock with drugs, Lestrade didn't like the man. Especially in the middle of a case that confused even Sherlock. He glared at him. He really didn't want him on his crime scene now.

"Mr. Turbine, I would really appreciate you not upsetting my consulting detective," he said, and could feel both Donavan and Anderson's eyes on him.

Garrett smiled. "That what he goes by? Freaky boy, back in Uni, you know. No one liked him. I'm guessing that hasn't changed."

"Sherlock has friends, Mr. Turbine, me and Dr. Watson included," Lestrade said coldly.

"Oh, a doctor? No wonder! He write him scripts? Man, he was a fan of the hardcore opiates back in the day. I remember him begging me for a vial of morphine just so he could sleep after being up four days straight. What he got for trying to quit on me. Oh well. Got a good shag in exchanged for that one…" he said, looking thoughtful.

Even Anderson frowned at him. Lestrade was fuming. "Look, Sherlock hasn't used in years, and we'd like to keep it that way, so I suggest you lay off him. He doesn't need it. He never did. Dr. Watson most certainly does not write him prescriptions for narcotics."

Garrett smiled. "Well, Doc Watson's missing out, that's for sure. Sherly will turn a pretty trick when you want him to. Tricked him out a few time to get what he wanted back at Uni…never had any complaints. Even if he did come back a little black and blue…and boy does that pale skin of his bruise easy…but I know at heart he liked it."

Lestrade frowned. "I think you should leave. I don't care if you own the place, but you're in my crime scene."

Garrett smiled broadly. "Ah, you'll see me again. Sherly can't resist me. He'll come crawling back, especially if his doctor doesn't feed his need. I know people like him. He's an addict, through and through, and he'll take the chance if I give it to him. You know that's true, don't you, Greg?"

He turned and left, leaving Lestrade flushed with anger. He turned to look at Donavan and Anderson, and both could see the "I dare you to say a fucking thing" written on the DI's face. Neither would dare. Especially since the whole thing proved one thing, and that was their resident freak might be a hell of a lot more human than they both had ever thought.

-Baker Street-

John stepped out for groceries and came back to a haunting melody of Sherlock on his violin. John wouldn't admit it, but he loved to hear him play. And composing tonight, he saw as he saw him scribble notes on a paper before returning to the playing. Sherlock's phone buzzed, and he ignored it.

"You got a text," John said, unloading the groceries.

"I'm ignoring it," he said and went back to the violin.

"It might be Greg," John said, looking up.

"Nope, its definitely not Greg," he said, scribbling down notes again.

John came up and picked up the phone. There were several texts from an unknown number. He clicked it open and blinked.

_Sherly. You know you want to come by, sweetie._

_You can't resist. I've got an ounce of China white for your pretty little head. Provided you give some head._

_I know your so called doctor doesn't give you what you need. I can provide it…just come on to the penthouse at the hotel. I'll give you everything…as long as you return the favor, sweetie. Got some wonderful bottles of Vicodin that are just screaming for your tongue, just like I am._

_Come on, loverboy, you know you miss me._

_Answer me, Sherly. Before I get angry with you. You remember what that's like, don't you?_

_Don't hold me accountable when I see you next, because you've upset me._

John closed the phone and saw that Sherlock hadn't changed at all, still scribbling notes and flittering away on his violin here and there. John sighed and heard his own phone buzz. Lestrade.

_Keep an eye on him. The Turbine bloke is an arse. Said some pretty nasty things about Sherlock before he left. I don't think no is in the man's vocabulary. – GL_

_He's texting Sherlock already, he's ignoring him, but I read them. This guy's a piece of work. I'm texting Mycroft. He's aggressive.-JW_ John texted back to him then flipped over to text Mycroft.

_Just a heads up, a man from Sherlock's Uni days named Garrett Turbine has shown up and is trying to tempt Sherlock back into drug use. He's aggressive and threatening already. – JW_

He set the phone on the table, not expecting an answer anytime soon, but instead there was a knock on the door about an hour later.

"Mycroft, you texted him, I suppose," Sherlock said, not looking up from his paper.

John let him in, and saw immediately the stern expression on the elder Holms brother and let him pass.

"Sherlock, why are you speaking with _Garrett_ at all?" Mycroft asked as soon as he stepped into the room.

Sherlock's phone buzzed several times in rapid succession. "I'm not speaking with him, but he seems to think that sending me threatening text messages is going to entice me to come to his penthouse."

Mycroft turned to John with an arched brow. "Um, he was at a crime scene today, he owns that hotel down in Camden. There was a murder and he showed up. I'm guessing he got Sherlock's number off the website."

Mycroft picked up the phone and scrolled through the text messages from the unnamed number. "Sherlock. Do not go to him."

Sherlock huffed. "I don't intend to. The bastard was the reason for everything. I don't even want to think about him and he shows up and now thinks he can force me back into that life again. I'm sorry, Mycroft, but I don't fancy being loaned out for a fuck just to get a dose of coke anymore. I think I'm a little beyond that stage of my life."

Sherlock had still not turned away from the window, where he was staring and still composing off and on as he spoke. "I know, Sherlock, but he was very convincing once."

"I didn't have John then," he responded matter-of-factly. "As long as I have John, I don't need it. You know that. I haven't even thought about using since he's been here."

John practically fainted from having Sherlock admit something like that in front of him. Mycroft nodded. "Do you want me to do anything?" he asked finally.

"I can handle Garrett, Mycroft. He's just playing mind games with me, and he forgets that he shouldn't do that with me when I'm not doped out of my fucking skull. It worked a long time ago, it doesn't work now that my head is clear of that," he said, resolutely plucking out notes again. "I do want a cigarette though, but John won't let me have those either."

"Course not, Sherlock. Not a very good doctor if I let you give yourself lung cancer, now am I?" John said, arching a brow.

Mycroft nodded. "Sherlock, call me if you need to. I don't trust Garrett, especially now that he has money. Just…please…talk to John if you need to, okay? That wasn't a pretty time of your life."

Sherlock snorted and continued with his violin. John shrugged and Mycroft left silently. Good lord the Holms boys and sneaking around quietly seemed to go hand in hand.

John picked up the phone and found a few more texts, each one progressively more angry and aggressive.

_Sherly, come on, sweetie, I haven't had a taste of your mouth in so long. Come by. I'll treat you nice. I promise._

_I'm getting tired of this, Sherly. The longer you wait to respond, the worse it will be when I get you here. And you will come here, if I have to drag you by your pretty black locks._

_Don't blame me when you get hurt._

_I can take care of that doctor as well. You wouldn't want him getting hurt in this would you?_

_Come on, Sherly. I'm not going to beg all night. I'll find you, and I'll give you what you need, even if you don't think you need it anymore._

_You remember the last time you ignored me? Keep that in mind, Sherly. That was a long night, wasn't it?_

John closed the phone, shaking his head. "He's a persistent bastard, huh?"

Sherlock sighed. "Yes. He's got this idea that he needs to have control over someone else to be happy. He just wants to recapture those days. And I want them gone forever."


	2. Old Days, Revisited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tells John what Garrett was to him, and how his entire life spiraled out of control. John makes a promise, and intends to keep it.

Sherlock sat with his head in his hands on the couch trying desperately to think, but his head was spinning. The bloody bastard kept messaging him. So much so he'd turned the damn phone off, briefly considering chucking it from the window, but he was worried that John would be upset with him. He didn't want to remember those days. He didn't want to remember the shame, humiliation, and everything that he'd been put through.

"Sherlock"?" John asked softly, coming to sit beside him.

He looked up, bleary eyed and sighed. "You know, the first time, it wasn't even my doing. Garrett held the needle. I can't…I…God John, I can't remember that. I've locked it away and I…"

John frowned. "What do you mean? What did this guy do?"

Sherlock's throat worked frantically as he was washed with things he didn't want. Bloody emotions and pain began to cascade across him. He'd locked it away for a reason. So he didn't have to deal with it. It seemed that that was coming back to haunt him. He glanced at John and sighed. "Please, John, I'm different now…so…promise me something…that you…you won't leave?" he pleaded quietly. "I need you or I'm so…afraid, oh bloody hell, I'm afraid…that I'll go to him. Just because he won't bloody well leave me alone now!"

"Sherlock, no matter what happened in the past, it won't change my opinion of you now, and I promise, I won't leave, no matter what you say," John said, sitting beside him and taking a shaking hand in his. He nodded and began his story.

_Uni sucked. The teachers sucked. The students sucked. Everything. They were all droll, dull and so damned boring it hurt. And so stupid! He just wanted to berate the idiots every chance he got. But he didn't do it often anymore even when the teachers made really obvious mistakes. Because he didn't need any more catcalls of freak, or show off, or weirdo, or whatever the word of the week was. He couldn't help it that he wasn't normal. He wanted to be normal, he really did. But he couldn't._

_"I sit here?" came a voice above him. He looked up. Jock type, football player…ah, fuck it he thought, stopping his mind short and shook his head slightly, staring down at his lanky hands as they hung between his knees._

_"How come you're all alone out here?" the blonde jock asked._

_Sherlock looked up with an arched brown and glanced around him, looking for someone pranking him. "Um, just waiting for my next class to start."_

_"Wanna come to a party tonight?" he asked, casually, and Sherlock's head popped up and he gaped._

_"You do not want me to attend any festivities you have arranged," he said, looking away._

_"What? Man, you talk fancy, nah, come on, I see you out here every day by yourself. You should come, hang out. Maybe find a girl. Or a boy," he said, waggling an eyebrow at him._

_Sherlock shook his head. "I do not have time for mind games. I would rather save myself the humiliation of attending your social function and being the target of excessive explicatives thrown my direction in the form of insults."_

_The blond smiled and stuck out his hand. For a moment Sherlock stared at it, then frowned at him, taking it. "Name's Garrett Turbine. I know you, Sherlock Holmes. They said you are rather well versed and can be a prick. But that's cool. I like a guy who says what he has on his mind. I'm serious, you're good, you know if I'm fuckin' wit ya."_

_Sherlock observed him and found no trace of malice, no ill intent, so he sighed. "Very well, but I cannot guarantee how long I will remain. What is the address?"_

_The information was exchanged and that night he was there, a glass of obnoxiously scented lager in a plastic cup in his hand, scanning and cataloging the environment. The first time he stayed only a short while. Then Garrett came and asked him for a second time. It hadn't been terrible, and it had been nice to feel somewhat normal and be invited to parties. Everyone else did, so why not him? He never drank, of course, he was a year or more younger than the others there. After several gatherings, he found himself seated in a strange living room and found when he stood his head began to spin wildly. He held to the sofa and shook his head. He stared at the rapidly doubling drink in his hand. It was tonic water. He hadn't even had alcohol._

_Hands steadied him and he turned to look into Garrett's blue eyes. "Hey, Sherly, come on, you don't look well, go to the loo?"_

_Sherlock shook his head. "Didn't drink…anything…what's…drugged. You drugged me?" he put the things together as he was being ushered up the stairs quickly past people who were rutting against each other in the corner._

_"It's okay Sherly, I'll take care of you. I hear you have some problems with sleeping. I'm just going to help you out, you know. Your dorm mate is rather annoyed with you, so you can stay with me tonight," he said and shoved Sherlock roughly backward._

_He panicked briefly before he felt something soft under him and realized he was on a bed. He blinked and wondered how he'd ended up here. "Gar?" he asked, felt like all the strength was drained from his limbs. "Wha…what are you…"_

_He felt Garratt's hands working his shirt up over his head and he weakly tried to push them off. "Stop, what…"_

_"I told you he was pretty," Garrett's voice over him, but not talking to him, fingers stroking his thin chest._

_There was a snort and weight beside him on the bed. Wait, Garrett was over him, and his hands were on his jean zipper. He started to struggle again, pushing away and felt a hand clamp on his mouth painfully._

_"Who'd have thought the freak would be so…nice under those layers of clothes he wears," another, familiar voice._

_Hands again, definitely where they shouldn't be, but he couldn't find it within himself to care, his head was spinning and his eyes were drooping. He yelped though when he felt something slide into him and heard a shocked gasp._

_"Fuckin' Goddammit. He's a virgin. Whatddaya know?" Garrett's voice again. "Hum, pretty boy like him, I was sure he'd have been fucked before. Well, Sherly, guess I get to take you first, huh?"_

_He tried to scream to get him to stop, but then the world descended into a fog of pain and tears and begging them to stop. How many of them? He didn't remember. Three or four, he thought, but his mind had shut down long ago. He remembered blood and pain and then blissful darkness as a needle slid into a vein in his arm._

_It spiraled from there. He was woke up the next morning with another needle, this time something that set his synapses on fire. And he wasn't allowed to leave the room. Garrett smiled and came and kissed him and then took his time and Sherlock couldn't care anymore. He just wanted oblivion again, to stop feeling the pain, the hurt… And he got it, and every time it was for a price. Either sex or a blow job, or a shot to the jaw, and he did whatever, taking the abuse, whatever the form, just to get what he needed. He left, went to his dorm, only to be dragged back. And then, he tried so many times to stop, but he found himself shaking on the same doorstep, yanked in and thrown down, used again by Garrett or one of the others, and then left to sleep in one of the bedrooms of the large house. Until someone found him and took advantage of him._

_But he didn't care. He didn't even care when he was thrown into a bedroom one night and a stranger came to him, and hit him again and again for questioning who he was. Bleeding and bruised, Garrett laughed and said he was prettier when he bled. So it happened again, and eventually his mind put together what was happening, that he was being sold and used, and he didn't even realize it._

_It was one morning when he was pretty sure he had at least two broken ribs by self-assessment and a possible broken jaw that he managed to stumble out into the yard, pitching down from a second story window, breaking his ankle in that move. He was dressed in a too big shirt and a pair of Garrett's boxers which threatened to fall at any moment off his thin frame. He managed to get back to a park. Frantic, he asked a man to help him; he needed to get to the hospital before he passed out flat in front of him and his excitable Yorkie._

_He woke in the hospital with Mycroft beside him, looking at him with that look that spoke more than words. But it melted when Sherlock's glance went to the glass doors and saw a familiar head of blond hair coming toward the doorway. He grabbed Mycroft's hand, surprising him._

_"My, please, help, keep him away, I want it to stop, help me…" he begged._

_And Mycroft Holmes had never seen his little brother beg, least of all for help. He nodded and went to the door where several people had gathered and told them they had to leave, that Sherlock was not to receive visitors, and would be transferred out the next day. Mycroft returned and sat down beside him, Sherlock grabbing him and sobbing into his chest like a child, telling him he was sorry and he just wanted to go home, and stop it._

When he was done, he glanced at John, who stared at the floor. He hadn't interrupted him, or said anything and Sherlock was worried. Was he disgusted by what he'd done? Logically, he knew the whole mess wasn't only on his shoulders. He'd been forced into it, and that's exactly what Garrett wanted from him again. To control him, to hurt him, to force him to do what he wanted. Just like he had before.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I mean, I really am. And I'm surprised your brother hasn't already had the man disappeared," John said quietly.

Sherlock sighed deeply. "Old money, even Mycroft's brand of magic is hard to use on someone like that. He doesn't make mistakes. Mycroft has tried to get an in, because he knew all along, but it was hard. I fell back a couple times, when Lestrade knew me before you were here was one. Garrett wasn't around, so I found my own suppliers, but…at least I didn't have to do things for it."

"So this guy just kept you in their house?" John said at last.

"I had to go to classes, but he'd walk me to every one of them, or one of the others, and if I…if I talked to anyone, I'd pay the price, get hit or something, and I really didn't see a way out. And the drugs were the only relief I got, because my brain wouldn't leave me alone, telling me what a terrible situation it was and how I had to get out. I knew that, but I just didn't see any way. But Mycroft got me out. He's insufferable, annoying and I would gladly slap him half the time, but he took me out. I finished my classwork at home after he pulled strings for me. I couldn't, wouldn't, go back again," Sherlock was twisting the blue fabric of his dressing gown between his long fingers now.

John took his hands gently, and Sherlock looked up. John saw the tears in his eyes he was trying to hold back as the memories flooded him. Sherlock didn't do well with emotions, John knew, and now he kind of understood why. He'd separated himself from them because they hurt too much. Simple strategy. John knew it well, had tried it. And it came back in the end as worse flashbacks and nightmares hit him. No… he was watching the carefully controlled man unwind and spiral out of control. And to him, the only solution was the drugs that put it all behind him. So now, John had to make him realize, that wasn't what he needed.

"Sherlock, is this why you disregard your feelings? Your body?" he asked simply, folding both Sherlock's cold hands between his own warmer ones.

Sherlock looked up, surprised at his John's observational skill. "It…it's easier. If…if I push them away, lock them up, ignore all the messages coming from my transport, my body, then…I forget it. I don't…I don't remember the feelings, the shame, the pain, and…and when they…" He swallowed hard then, looking away.

John squeezed his hands again. "Did they make you have orgasms? Did they force you into them?"

Sherlock's eyes widened and he stared at John. "It happens, Sherlock. They were playing control games with you, and no one's body is immune to those things."

"Mine is now," he said softly. "I don't…I mean…I've never…not sense then…"

John leaned closer. "Sherlock, you mean to tell me, after that, you've never had a relation with another person?"

Sherlock nodded. "I don't think it was a very good first time."

The statement caught John so off-guard he nearly dropped Sherlock's trembling hands. First time. That meant that Sherlock had wanted to have a first time and they'd ruined it. Meaning Sherlock…he liked men already. And was the submissive one. He looked his flatmate, no his friend, over again. The thick brunette curls framing his pale, high cheek boned face, the cute cupid's bow of his lip that fascinated John. Wait. Cute? Really? Did he just associate such a word with Sherlock? Okay, yes, he was bloody attractive, and almost…feminine, really, if it weren't for the height, long lean limbs, and a sway to his body that only intensified when he was excited. Oh, Good Lord no, John thought. Where was his mind going? Seriously. He was going off on tangents worse than Sherlock himself. But he was deducing.

"I'd say that was a very bad first time, Sherlock. I don't even count that as a first time. You deserve a real first time, with someone that loves you and cares about your comfort and pleasures and wants you to feel as good as they do. Someone that won't use drugs to get you to comply with them. Someone that will make you forget the shame and humiliation of that horrible man who took something you didn't give him. No, it was a shit first time, Sherlock, and it wasn't a real one, understand?" John found himself staring into those gray-green-blue eyes (seriously, what color were they? They changed…he swore they did).

And then, it was like the dam broke. All at once Sherlock's breath hitched once, and he had a look on his face like he was shocked beyond words at the sound he himself had made. Then it happened again, and tears began to sluice their way down his face and patter onto his and John's hands. "I…" he said. "I…I don't want that…again…I want…I want…" he stammered.

And the only thought in John's head, was fuck it, as he leaned over and tugged his friend into his arms, feeling the long arms go around his back and his head burrow into the crook of his neck. One hand went to his head, and the other to his back as he began to shake.

"That's it," he whispered, running circles around the shivering back, and fingers through the silken curls. "That's it. Let everything out, Sherlock. Every bit of it. You're not going to him, you aren't going to the drugs again. No, you're going to stay here, with me, and I'll get you through it, and we'll deal with the memories. All of them. And then, if you want that someone, I think I'll be here, though I'm a bit not good at the whole business with relationships. But that's okay. Right now, let out everything you've held in, and I'll be here."

And by everything that was ever holy to John Watson's life, he meant it. And if Garrett dared to cross him, he would find out how good a sniper John could be when defending his friend. He'd done it once, and he barely knew him then. He most certainly had no qualms of doing it again.


	3. Reliving

John expected it. He knew it was coming. And he knew it would be hard on his friend. Is that what he was? John didn't know. He'd put him to bed, nearly having to carry him to his room, and tucked him in, telling him to come find him if he needed him. He figured he would be needed at some point that night. He knew the nightmares would come, and as vivid as Sherlock's mind was, he had no doubt it would be terrifying to him. He'd be reduced to that Uni boy he had been, and if John was lucky, he'd let him help. If John was terribly unlucky, he would get decked for his attempts. But that was okay. More than once he'd lashed out in a flashback at someone. It had been a long time, though, but between therapy and Sherlock, he'd stopped having them, and the nightmares were less frequent.

No surprise when a terrified shriek awoke him from his slumber at around four in the morning. He pulled himself stiffly off the couch and stumbled into Sherlock's room and new it was a nightmare that had progressed into a full blown flashback. He bit his lip and approached cautiously. Sherlock had ended up in the corner of his room, hands held over his head and knees pulled to his chest, and it was obvious he was near hyperventilating.

_Oblivion was nice. So nice._

_"Sherly, wake up, prat," came a familiar voice._

_"Goway," he muttered, slapping weakly at the hand on his bare shoulder._

_"Get up, I got someone for you to meet," Garrett said soflty. "If you're a good boy, I'll take care of you when he leaves, okay? Promise, loverboy. But you gotta be a good boy, can you do that?" he asked, brushing the younger man's dark curls out of his face and tracing a finger over his lips._

_"Hmmm, s'long as I get ta sleep agin," Sherlock muttered, eyes fluttering._

_"Okay, sweetie. Remember, if you aren't nice, I'll be mad?" he said, cupping the thinner man's cheek._

_Sherlock didn't answer, only nodded. Then he was gone and his eyes fluttered closed again. Ah, that was better. Back to the blackness. But then the door slammed loud and he looked to see a man, someone he didn't know, looking down at him._

_"Good mercy, was he right or what? You can't be older than sixteen, boy. Oh, good Lord," came a rough voice out of his range. Sherlock's eyes locked on a pair of dark eyes staring at him._

_"Hum? Who're you? Where's Gar?" he asked, starting to panic. Where'd he go? He was the only one he could trust, he'd bring him the oblivion he craved, but he wasn't there._

_He sat up, realizing that he was completely naked under the thin sheet. He looked around in sudden clarity, the fog lifting and swirling around his brain. He needed more. He needed to sleep again, and escape this hell. But he was staring a man that was bigger than Garrett and that was saying something. Sherlock was tall, reedy, and thin, with sparse muscles, and since he'd been with Garrett his thinness was only worse, his ribs and hip bones sticking out sharply through his pale skin._

_"Hey there, little boy, Garrett said you'd be a good boy, remember?" the large man asked._

_Business man. Tall, six foot eight, obese in an unpleasant way. Likely diabetic due to the concentration of fat on his stomach region. Cheap suit, off the rack, not tailored at all. Cuffs were too long, jacket was not suited to his girth. Small business, likely at an entry level. Cheap cologne, discount store, possibly dollar store, going by the alcohol smell of it. White button up shirt, cotton, blue tie, also cotton instead of silk. Purchased at a discount store. Ring. Married. At least five years. Bites nails, nails stained with yellow, smell of smoke in the brown hair, current smoker, menthol Salem. Chronic cough._

_His thoughts were slammed closed when he yanked the thin sheet off his body. Sherlock's eyes went wide. "What are you doing?" he asked._

_"He said you'd be a good boy."_

_"But…but what…I don't…" he stammered and then he felt the thick meaty hand connect with his face. Shocked he just stared with his hand on his face, blood dripping._

_"Shut the fuck up, you're the whore, here, now do as you were told," he growled and pinned the younger man to the bed._

_"But…no…I don't…what's…" he stammered, confused, completely confused._

_A punch to the stomach and ribs in rapid succession sent him gasping as he was flipped onto his stomach with pinching hands. A follow up to the back of his head had his mind grasping at consciousness. He couldn't think enough to catalog the injuries. Then hands, where they weren't supposed to be again, but this time it wasn't someone he knew, it wasn't Garrett. It wasn't the ones that could give him what he craved now. He screamed then as the man took him by surprise, hands scrabbling on the bedding in shock and pain. Another blow to quiet him to back of his ribcage, set him to burying his face into the covers and whimpering. He couldn't…no, he had to cut the connection. Disregard it. Disregard the sensations, even as he felt him grip him and try to coax him into arousal. No, no, no…not this._

_"Ha, you know you like it, fuckin' slut that you are," he breathed in his ear, stroking him underneath, and he knew his body had betrayed him. But he didn't need it. He disregarded it completely. No, those sensations…they belonged to someone else. Not him…his mind didn't need them, not at all. It was…it was a transportation for his mind, that's all, what happened to it…it didn't matter…didn't matter…_

_He felt himself go over the edge, just barely at the edges of his fading vision, and felt the man over him go over shortly thereafter. He laid there, under him, being crushed by his weight, what three hundred pounds, maybe? And finally he stood up, slapping him hard on the arse. All he could do was whimper._

_"Definitely tell mah bar buddies about this one…can't beat it…" he said and left._

_When the door closed, Sherlock scrambled off the bed and to the corner farthest in the room and cried, knees pulled to his chest. The door opened and he tried to ignore it but Garrett wrenched his head up and looked over his bleeding lip and bruised face._

_"I told you to behave. Didn't I tell you to behave? To be a good boy for him? And you argued with him? You're just lucky he likes to be rough. But it still doesn't take away you disobeyed me, Sherly," he said, and Sherlock was scared. There was something to his voice._

_Then he slapped him, backhanded him and hit him again and again until he was sobbing, hands over his head. "Remember that, Sherly. You're going to sit here and wait. For as long as I want, before I bring back your relief. You're going to be in pain, and you'll remember next time to listen to me. Understand?"_

_A swift kick into his ribs with a crunching sound set him gasping and nodding franticly. Then he was gone…and he was alone…_

John kneeled before him, heard the whimpering sounds. He was still gripped in whatever terror was invading his mind.

"Don't…" he whispered.

"Sherlock, it's John, can you come back to me?" he asked gently.

His head came up and he looked with wide frightened eyes, mouth quivering and eyes teary. He shook his head. "Please, don't hurt me."

"I won't, Sherlock, remember, it's John?" he said, inching toward him carefully.

Slowly, very slowly, he reached out and John took his shaking hand. There was still fear, but he was breaking through the flashback. He recognized John. He moved closer and kneeled in front of his knees. Finally he blinked and heaved forward, surprising John as he wrapped his arms around him again and gasped.

"It was real, so real…I hate my mind…why would it do this to me? I remembered it all, every detail…th-the first time…he sent me someone else….and…John, why?" he was begging John for the answers he wanted. And John didn't have them.

"Sherlock, it was a flashback, its okay. I've had them, and they suck. But they'll fade, I promise. Tell me what happened in it. I know its hard, but it helps, trust me, it helps," John said, holding him, feeling the rapid tattoo of his heart against his chest.

So, he sat there, extremely uncomfortable on his bad leg, arms around him, as he told him haltingly about what had happened in the awful flashback. John held his own anger in check that anyone could do that to another human being, but more than that, it had been one of the first times Sherlock decided he was simply better off disregarding his own body. When he was done, John helped him up and over to the bed. The look on his face brokered no argument that John should stay right there.

He pulled him close, the angle awkward since Sherlock was so much taller, but his head rested against John's chest.

"John, would you…ever…think…" Sherlock began then stopped.

"Sherlock, I can't read your mind, what is it?" John asked.

He felt Sherlock hesitate then look up at him. "You said…you said that you were bad at relationships but you'd try…do you mean…I know you can't mean…because you said…but still what you said…and…"

John smiled. "Oh you bloody git, shush. I know what I said, and I meant what I said. You're the most important thing to me, Sherlock. And I plan to make sure you're okay. And when you're better, maybe I can be more than your shoulder to cry on."

"But why, John? I'm…I'm not normal…I don't feel things…not like you do…" he whispered.

"And the only reason is because of Garrett and what he did. I don't think you would have disconnected everything if he hadn't forced you. You wouldn't have picked up drugs, as much as you try to imagine you would have. You couldn't escape and that's so very human," he said, dragging a hand through the dark hair.

The phone buzzed then and Sherlock picked it up. "Another murder, like the last, clues that don't add up…" Sherlock mused. "Maybe I can find some consistencies between the crime scenes."

"Well, let's go, then," John said, and they both hurried and got dressed, heading out shortly thereafter.

Another motel, another dead body with completely random clues. It was like someone was messing with him. The woman wore a rain coat that was recently rained on. Yet there was no rain in the area in the last week, and it was rain, not water. She was completely frustrating. Of course, his recent breakdowns weren't helping. He shook his head and stood, looking around.

"This is the same. Conflagration of clues. None connected. Like two puzzles dumped out together. Wait…no…that's it!" Sherlock turned and stared around. "That's it, two puzzles. Two separate crimes, but the clues are blended…"

It took a while, but he managed to catalog two separate things at the same scene. Once he did, he'd have to revisit the first scene…he shivered at the thought. That was too close to Garrett for his liking, but he'd do it. He had a case to solve after all. So, after he was done, John, he and Lestrade headed over to the other hotel and he set about piecing together the puzzles. The crime scene for the first victim was the second victim's scene, and vice versa. Evidence from each scene had been transported back and forth between them, and then some of it was just seemingly made up.

"You think this was to confuse you, Sherlock?" asked John.

Sherlock shook his head. "I do not know, either me specifically or investigators all together, really. This would confuse anyone… Now, I'd like to get out of here before I have an unpleasant encounter with…" he shivered unconsciously and shook his head. Lestrade glanced at John who gave a small smile indicating he knew what was happening.

"Come on, John," Sherlock said and headed out. John stopped and smiled at Lestrade.

"He's a bastard, so yeah," John said, and left behind him to stop short in the hall.

Okay, long legs or no, there was no way Sherlock could have gotten to the elevator before him. He looked down the cross paths on the way to the elevator and blinked as he realized there was a blue scarf beside the elevator doors. His eyes widened and he ran back down the hallway to the scene with it.

"Greg!" he announced. Lestrade turned and saw the scarf in John's hands.

"Where's Sherlock?" he asked, moving forward.

John shook his head. "I don't know but I'm betting Garrett has something to do with it. He was out of my sight two seconds and gone before I got to the elevators."

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair. "And I can't just go knock on his door and demand to be let inside. Mycroft?"

John nodded, taking out his phone and texting the elder Holmes brother.

_Mycroft, problem, at Turbine's hotel for crime scene, Sherlock's gone. –JW_

A few seconds later. _He hasn't left the hotel. Can Lestrade get into his penthouse? – MH_

_No way to get a warrant, no evidence, unless you can come up with something.-JW_

_Will see what I can do.-MH_

"Okay, got him on it," John said softly. "We've got to get to him. He's already having flashbacks from it…"

Lestrade shook his head and stared. "From what? All I gathered is that this guy provided drugs for him."

John shook his head. "It was more than that. He started Sherlock on the drugs, physically forcing them on him, and then using him and beating the shit out of him for trying to get away from him. He fucking sold him, Greg. And then strung him out so bad he couldn't get away. No, he's more than just a bastard."

Greg blinked and nodded. "God, I didn't…wow. I mean, I knew before you, he was into doing some coke and opium, but I didn't realize…"

"This is the guy that made him like he is," he said harshly, making sure the Donovan and Anderson were within range of hearing. "Because of what this bastard did, he cut off everything he could feel and distanced himself from everything because it hurt too much. He offered him friendship and reached out and smiled, then turned around, doped him up and him and his friends fucking gang raped him and doped him up until he couldn't go without out it, so he'd depend on him and do anything he wanted. He was like seventeen years old, Greg. Mycroft got him out, but by then…" John rubbed his eyes. "He doesn't even understand the things he's feeling right now because he's been without them so long, and if he gets his hands on him again, he'll try to do it all again. You didn't see the texts."

Greg nodded. "Maybe we can get a judge to listen if we show the text message records from his phone. We'll pull them, and see what we can do."

Moments later they had the records. Lestrade stared. "No way a judge is going to ignore this," he said, grabbing his coat and heading out with a copy of the records. "Tell Mycroft where I've gone, maybe he can help."

John texted off to Mycroft then picked up the paper. He knew that Sherlock had turned off his phone and ignored it completely. But…wow.

_Sherly…don't ignore me, sweetie. I'll make you feel better, I promise. Help you on that case. Got it all figured out? I know how you like puzzles. And you'll figure it out so much faster with a little coke in your veins, so come find me. I mean, two murders like that?_

The thought of the staged scenes crossed his mind. "Holy fuck," he muttered, understanding what Greg meant. "He staged the murders to draw him out…"


	4. Escalation and Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John gets angry because Garrett takes what he believes is his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic non-con and violence/torture within.

Of course, when they got the warrant, the penthouse was empty. It wasn't like they expected him to be there. The text was enough to implicate Garrett Turbine as a suspect or a person of interest in the double murder they were investigating, and no one knew where he was. He was simply gone. And John, well, John was pissed. Because the first thing that was said in his range of hearing came from Anderson.

"Well, he must have took off with him. Once an addict and all…"

That was the wrong thing to say in hearing range of the ex-military doctor. Because at this moment, he felt less like a doctor and more like a soldier. And he rounded on Anderson before Lestrade could even respond to the rude comment from Anderson.

"The only reason he was a fucking addict is because the mother fucking bastard held him down and pumped him full of drugs. So don't you _dare_ act like Sherlock is at fault for this. He was a kid. He didn't choose what he did. And he fucking got away with it because of his rich daddy. So, Anderson, either keep your fucking mouth shut until this case is over, or so help me, I will break your fucking jaw."

Anderson paled. Quickly, and stepped back, gloved hands raised. John was vibrating. He'd just found out his seemingly emotionally stunted, almost emotionally vacant, friend, flatmate, whatever he is, became that way because of what someone else did to him. Everything was done to protect himself. He shut himself down. He used his mind to catalogue and save himself from the crushing pain of what had been done to him. Lestrade wasn't sure what to do but stare wide eyed at the blond, normally quiet and mild mannered man.

"He grew up alone because he was different, and then he destroyed him. And you want to stand there and _assume_ you know everything. Unless you're willing to sit through the terrified flashbacks and nightmares I had to go through last night, shut…the…fuck…up. Until you hear him begging to not go back to that again, shut your mouth. You and Donovan enjoy giving him grief all the time. You honestly think you're the first people to call him a freak? He's spent his life because people like you can't understand how his fucking brilliant goddamned mind works."

John turned on his heels and stormed off, desperately trying to figure out where the arrogant arsehole would have taken his dear Sherlock to, and what he planned to do with him.

-Another Place-

"Sherly," a voice whispered. Sherlock had to be dreaming.

No. Reality crashed back into him. He'd stepped into the hallway, John paused to talk to Lestrade and then…then the floor was coming at him as white hot pain exploded in the back of his head. He vaguely remembered someone yanking his scarf off his neck and then spinning and moving fast. And then…blank. He must have passed out. His head was thundering against the inside of his skull. Finally he opened his eyes to let in the searing light around him, and saw a particular blond haired fiend.

"Garrett, what…" he said, his wits still slowly collecting about himself.

"I'm sorry, Charles got a little…overexcited when he used that billy club on your skull. You might have a headache for a while. But I'm more worried about relieving it," he said, holding up a syringe in front of Sherlock's face.

"No."

Garrett blinked. "What do you mean no? Your head has to be pounding, loverboy."

"I'll manage."

"Oh, you're going to play this way?" he asked, putting away the syringe. "Fine, I won't offer again. But you will beg for it before we're done. And until you beg me, you aren't getting it."

"I won't beg."

Garrett smiled, placing himself on top of Sherlock's pale thighs. Only then did the world's only consulting detective observe he was without a stitch of clothing. It didn't take his mighty powers of deductive reasoning to figure out what Garrett intended. He sent a glare at him.

"Garrett, I'm asking you to reconsider. I have friends now. It isn't like it used to be. And I have made promises I do not intend to break," he said, his grayish eyes staring into the deep blue above him.

Garrett's face twisted briefly. "We'll see, Sherly, we'll see. You're mine. You were mine from the time I saw you sulking across the campus dragging on a cig. I marked you then, and I'll mark you now. You are fucking mine and no one else's, Sherly. And I'm not giving you back."

Sherlock scoffed, causing Garrett to rear up on his knees and stare. "Yeah, well, back in Uni, my brother was not the British government and my best mate was not a short ex-military man with an even shorter fuse. I think you shall find them a team to be reasoned with, Garrett."

"They'd have to find you first, Sherly, and if you haven't noticed, we're not in my penthouse."

Sherlock's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. Damn, he wasn't counting on him moving him. He guessed he had more than two working brain cells these days…that was…unfortunate for him.

"Now, Sherly, how about we resume where we left off. Me, fucking you into the bed, you, begging me for drugs," he said, sliding down between Sherlock's legs.

"I will not beg for them, no matter what you do to me," Sherlock said, looking up at the ceiling. He forced his heart to slow because he realized with crashing reality, he didn't remember ever having done this sober. He'd always been high, and remembered next to nothing of what Garrett and the others did to him except in the flashback he'd started having recently.

"No," Garrett's voice, punctuated with a hard punch to the jaw. Sherlock felt it creak. "No escaping into your head, seen that too many times. You keep your eyes on me, or I'll go do something nasty to your so called 'friends'."

Sherlock's head snapped down and he locked eyes on the man he once trusted with everything he was. He swallowed. No, this wasn't going to be nice at all. Garrett's hands hand made their way down and were circling his entrance around and then pulled away.

"You know what, I was gonna be nice. Even use lube on you. But now, I think dry and rough it is, Sherly," he said and before Sherlock had a chance to react, in one swift move he'd buried himself all the way in him.

As much as he told himself he wasn't going to make a noise, he let out a surprised and pained cry and arched against the bed. His hands fluttered against the bed where they were locked into twin handcuffs, and his feet struggled to pull free of their own bonds to shove him off, anything to get him _off._ But no he sat there, grinning as tears surfaced and watered down his face and his adam's apple bobbed, unable to breathe past the sharp, stabbing pain that shot up his back and down the back of his thighs to settle into the arches of his feet like some sort of horrid foot cramp. His mind, always working even at a time like this, wondered briefly if there was some reason that the sciatic nerves would be activated with pain of a forced penetration like this… He shook the thoughts away. He'd have to wonder, because like _hell_ he'd ever experiment on this question.

Finally, he was moving, and he felt the wet slide of blood and knew something internally had given, and despite the new sting, at least the unholy burning friction eased off with the addition of some type of lubrication, although a quite macabre one. He caught his breath as he set a shallow rhythm, moving center on to ensure there was no pleasure given to the man under him, only sating his own need.

"Sherly, look how nice you look, eyes all red and watery, pretty black curls sticky with sweat…and then the lovely white legs will be coated with blood when I'm done with you. Isn't that nice?" Garrett said, punctuating his words with sharp snaps of his hips, and his fingers digging painfully into Sherlock's thin hipbones. "Look, you're not even enjoying it, are you? How can you not enjoy me, Sherly?" he said, reaching down to fondle his unresponsive nether region.

"M-mind…over…m-matter…" he muttered.

"We'll see, Sherly. I've got a few friends for you, too, just like old times, shall I invite them in?" he said, leaning over to whisper in his ear. Sherlock shook his head before he thought.

Garrett laughed until his thrusting became erratic and he spent himself inside the body beneath him. Despite his desire for quiet, Sherlock whimpered at the stinging burn the salty liquid gave against the torn walls of his body. He couldn't handle this again if what Garrett said was true. After all this time, would he? Could he do something like that? He was angry because Sherlock refused the drugs, so anything could happen. But he wouldn't take them. He'd have to force him again.

Finally he pulled back and forced his legs wider apart, straining against the bindings. "Oh, lovely. Got that pretty good, eh, Sherly? Musta hurt like a bitch with the amount of blood you got leaking out of yer pretty little arse. Ah, are you ready for your fix, sweetie?"

"No," Sherlock said, fighting back waves of nausea as he go up and came over and unhooked his left arm.

Sherlock watched for the opportunity to take him on, but he didn't get it. He clamped the cuff to the right side of the bed, then repeated the same process at his feet. Then he moved back and swapped the cuffs on hands, then feet, flipping him over to now lay spread on his stomach. He looked over his shoulder and glared at him. Garrett smiled then adjusted the feet until there was more play at the chain holding his ankles down so he could actually pull his legs together out of the awkward positon. He nearly sighed in relief only to have Garrett yank his head up by the hair and smile.

"Jerry's dying to meet you, Sherly. Hope you enjoy him," he said, kissing him on the brow. "He likes whips, and I told him to have at since you're such a naughty Sherly."

He left then, the door closing and Sherlock was alone for a moment. He tried to collect himself, but heard the door open and close again, and then heard the telltale sing of a whip through the air behind him and he flinched hard when it contacted with his back.

"Oh, I love the sound of a leather on skin, don't you, mate?" said a man with a thick cockney accent.

Sherlock swallowed and tried to bury his face in the pillow as the whip sang and sang. It took ten hits before he was whimpering and begging to stop. At twenty he started to scream. By twenty seven, he'd lost his voice, and at thirty he really thought he was dying. His body from shoulder to the back of his knees was covered in bleeding, raised welts now. But Jerry wasn't done. Of course, not, Sherlock thought as he felt the bed dip and his legs pried apart. Oh, whipping him wasn't bad enough, and then he jerked as he felt something hard and smooth against him, then forcing inside him. He jerked against the bindings when he realized Jerry was using the handle of the whip on him. Somehow that was even more degrading…

"Oh, lovely how you bleed, now, let's finish, he said, and moved up closer. Sherlock screamed again, somehow finding his voice, when he roughly forced himself inside along with the handle to the whip. "That's it, just the way I want it," he muttered and seemed to have wrapped a hand around the base of his own cock and the whip and was thrusting slowly and shallowly with both at the same time.

Sherlock was about to come unglued, the pressure on his wounded back and legs was immense because the man had to weigh at least sixteen stone or more. But more than that, the hard leather wrapped handle had no give and was worked in deeper than the man's more than ample cock. He choked on his own spit when he finally came, pulling out and staring much as Garrett had, playing with the whip for a while until he was satisfied. He then was gone, leaving Sherlock in a whole lot more pain than he started with. Unfortunately, his back and legs were the least of his worries at the moment. He was hoping the bastard hadn't perforated him with the damn thing. That would be a miserable way to die. Granted it would technically be septic shock killing him, but still. That was also possible from the wounds on his back. He sighed into the bed and heard the door open.

"Oh, Sherly, look how pretty. I'm gonna take a picture now. Here, I'll give you a modicum, just a modicum, of decency," he said, and sure enough, a towel landed across his stinging bum. "Okay, look at the camera."

Sherlock turned his head to the side, and there was a flash as the phone snapped the picture, followed by another, he guessed as he took a picture of his back. Holy hells, it burned like fire across his body.

"Are you sure you don't want to beg me for something, Sherly?" came a voice near the door.

"Fuck off, Garrett," he growled hoarsely.

"You will, Sherly. You will. You're next friend won't be as nice as Jerry. Vince tends to like to break things," Garrett said, and Sherlock heard the smile in his voice.

Mind palace, he thought as he retreated from the pain throughout him. Mind palace.

-New Scotland Yard-

John's phone beeped. A message from…Sherlock? He didn't open it, just got up and went into Lestrade's office where he was sitting with Anderson and Donovan going over the evidence.

"Message from Sherlock," he said softly, and handed the phone to Lestrade. He did and didn't want to see what he said.

Anderson looked quite smug, and so did his female companion. At least until Lestrade gasped out loud. "Oh, fuck, John…" He handed the phone back and John sat down hard.

"Oh, oh God," he said, blinking at the photo and message.

"What is it?" Anderson said, not saying what he was thinking, for fear a certain ex-military doctor might punch him this time.

"Message. From Garrett, has Sherlock's phone. Says this. 'Sherly got some backbone. Won't take my offers of old time relief. Rather adamant, good job there, doctor. But how long will he last before he begs me for some? Jerry had a good time with him. I told him that Vince is next, he likes to hear bones break,' and there's a couple pictures. Of Sherlock," John said woodenly, and handed the phone to Donovan beside him, blinking.

One was Sherlock's face, obviously tied onto a cot of some sort, his arms stretched out, and jaw purple. His hair was slicked with sweat and blood flowed from his lip where he'd obviously bitten it. His side was dripping blood from what they could see. The second was higher, and was of his back and legs, a mangled mess of bloody, ripped flesh. A towel was draped over his rear, but the amount of blood around his hips was enough to tell the tale of what had happened to him, and John's stomach turned.

"He wants him to take the drugs, but he wants him to beg for them, and he's going to torture him until he does…" John whispered and looked with pleading eyes at Lestrade.

"I'm calling Mycroft back," he said, grabbing his cell and ringing the elder Holmes. There was a pause. "Mycroft, Lestrade. We have an idea on Sherlock. Garrett has him, but…well, John will send you the message he got from Sherlock's phone. Can you trace his phone? Hopefully the bastard will forget to take the GPS out. Oh? Okay." He hung up.

"That man is a sneaky son of a bitch, I do _not_ ever want him opposite of me. He made sure Sherlock's phone had an untraceable GPS chip put in under the case. He's been in process of tracking it, and should have it soon enough," he said.

John shook his head. "Greg, not soon enough, not if in less than four hours, he's already done that to him."

Greg nodded. "We just have to get a location, John, that's all."

"I'm going to fucking kill the bastard, Lestrade. Just fair warning," John said, standing and walking out into the front waiting area.


	5. Not Soon Eough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking brief pause (fifth chapter marker, time for editing).
> 
> Not sure about this chapter though. Seems too choppy we'll see.

 

                The fact is that time crawls by when you want it to go quickly, and it scampers by when you wish it would slow down.  This idea had often fascinated Sherlock, now more than ever.  He swallowed hard and wished that time would speed up and he would be allowed to go home, he’d even take Mycroft for that matter.  He sighed and waited.  Because waiting was all he could do.  The door opened and closed and he tensed.

                “Ah, yes, he said you were a right lovely one,” came a new voice, thick Welsh accent.  Vince, no doubt.

                “Vince, I’ll assume.  Where does Garrett find so many sadists?” he asked no one in particular.

                He felt the vice grip on is ankle.  “I do like the feisty ones.  He said as long as you don’t die…  You know that encompasses a lot.”

                The man came around and Sherlock saw that he was dark skinned with deep mahogany eyes.  His hair was close cropped and dyed platinum blond.  Sherlock decided it was not a good look on the guy.  But he was huge, wide and stocky.  He was perhaps five nine in height, but he was built like a weight lifter in the arms.  He hoped that he left his fingers alone.  He didn’t know if he could take having his violin playing taken away.

                “So what does he plan for you to do with me to convince me to beg him for drugs I don’t want,” he said as though he were discussing the weather and not laying tied to a bed with a sadistic bastard that he only knew liked breaking bones.

                “Normally, I have a process.  Fingers, toes, arms, calves, but he seems to want to maximize your pain in the shortest amount of time.  So I’ll end up going straight to that lovely femur of yours, or knee maybe we’ll see how it works out, maybe play around with the bones in the feet first.  So many bones, you know…so many…” he said, moving to the foot of the bed and manhandling his foot.

                Shelock’s mind raced.  Femur.  How in the hell was the guy planning on breaking a femur on a man tied to a bed?  He didn’t bring anything into the room, of course, that didn’t mean there wasn’t something already in the room for him to use.  The femur was a tough bone to break, so he was really unsure how he was going to manage it.

                “But first, some of my favorites,” he said mildly and a hard punch landed in his side, making him gasp sharply.  Ribs, he groaned to himself.

                After a few minutes of rapid punching to his sides, he was really sure he had probably three or four cracked ribs and felt like one or two broken if the crunching sound and the pain radiating through him from breathing was anything to indicate.  He slowed it down, taking gasping shallow breaths.  However, it was impossible when he felt something decidedly hard and metal impact with the top of his foot.  He tried to look but he couldn’t see anything.

                “Oh, just a small hammer, there, lovely.  Won’t break too many things on the bed, but I’m under strict instructions not to unhook you, but this might sting a bit.”

                His ankle was painfully twisted as he dropped it down again and he cried out again, tears squeezing out of his eyes.  He felt something crack that time despite the give of the thin mattress under him.  After a few more minutes, both his feet were incredibly hot and pain shot up and down both legs.

                “Now, for my finale, now it takes quite a significant amount of torque to do what I’m about to do, my love, but oh that is what I specialize in, you know.”

                There was a clink as his right ankle was released and his calf grasped.  And then he twisted.  And it took a minute to register that he was going to break something.  It ended up being his knee that gave first.  There was a sick cracking pop sound and the ache in his ribs and feet was completely gone, let alone the burning on his back and other areas.  He was certain bone, muscle, tendon, everything tore.  It felt like his leg below the knee was loose or gone or something.  A scream didn’t so much cover the sound he made then.

                Of course, that wasn’t to be the end of it.  The bed dipped but he didn’t notice and felt hands on his back, pressing him down, shortening his breaths even more than they already were.  “He said to ask if you wanted some relief yet?”

                “F-fu-fuck aw-awf,” he managed with a lot of effort.

                “Ah, stubborn.  Well, you might change your mind here soon,” he said and Vince settled over him, pulling his broken leg upward with a jerk, causing another screech.

                He wasn’t even sure what happened then.  Really, he knew he was there, and vaguely registered the pain again, but honestly, he didn’t think he could even think let alone accept the fact that he was pressing him down, making his ribs scream and squeezing into the broken bones of his knee.  He recalled the feeling blood again, and knew he should really worry about that more than he was right at that moment.  He was more concerned with holding onto the vague threads of consciousness that seemed elusive.  And then, finally, black fingers came crawling and closed over his mind.

-Somewhere Between-

                John was sure they had settled into a snail’s pace.  The cars were moving far too slowly.  Mycroft sat beside him.  A car behind them carried Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson.  Further behind was the rest of Anderson’s forensics team and a few other officers.  No one in any of the cars spoke.  They all knew they were against a clock.  They pulled into a nondescript house, albeit nice one.  Mycroft’s men were out and swarming the place before the man himself was out of the car.  Once the outside was secure, he let Lestrade and John take the lead.  Anderson hung back, and Donovan followed behind Mycroft.

                John saw Garrett first.  One of Mycroft’s men had him by the arm near the entrance.  “Welcome, John-boy!” he exclaimed.  “Come to reclaim your slut?  Definitely as good as I remember…”

                John lost it.  Before anyone could blink, he had pulled the gun from his belt and shot the man in the shoulder.  He purposely missed anything major and then dared anyone to say anything to him.  Garrett fell with a scream, clutching his bleeding shoulder.  John sighed.

                “Quit whining, it’s a through and through,” he said and stalked off toward the nearest room where the door popped open and a large dark skinned man came out, eyes wide. 

                Mycroft’s men were on him in a moment and John hesitated, not wanting to go into the room because he smelled blood, the tang of the copper made him ill.  But he pushed the door open and gasped.  “Mycroft!  You called the paramedics already, right?”

                He didn’t wait for an answer, simply ran into the room and dropped to his knees by the bed.  “Oh, gods, Sherlock,” he whispered, not sure where to touch him.  His back was completely eviscerated.  A sheet had been thrown over him, but it was already soaked with blood.  He turned to see Mycroft, his resolve faltering and then Lestrade came in.

                “Holy fuck,” Greg said, eyes wide.

                “Greg, do you have a set of handcuff keys?  Now!” John said, moving toward doctor mode.

                A pair of handcuff keys showed up in his hand and he unhooked three limbs that were still attacked, and noticed the awkward placement of the last.  He swallowed hard.  He pulled his pen light out and lifted his lids to check his eyes.

                “Pupils are sluggish, concussion.  Broken ribs by the sound, possible punctured lung, looks like his knee’s broken from what I can tell, obvious lashing, and I don’t know what else, pulse is weaker than I’d like, and his breathing is bad.  Where’s the paramedics?” he yelled the last, just as they finally entered.

                Even though they were supposed to know what they were doing, John found himself barking orders in quick military fashion.  Finally, he was loaded up and they were on their way to St. Barts.  Mycroft was already gone, going with them to set up a private room for his brother.  All in all, several people were taken into custody including Garrett, Vince, and Jerry.  It didn’t take long to figure that they had all had a hand in the consulting detective’s current state.

                Lestrade took them to the Yard and separated them, and then set about the interrogation process.  Vince and Jerry were more than willing to deal, spilling everything they knew on their boss and telling them how long this had been planned. It seemed that Garrett had quite an unhealthy obsession with Sherlock.  This was found to be true when officers visiting one of his homes found a room plastered with every article and picture of the detective ever published.  He had gone so far as to have private investigators follow him and take pictures at different points.  There were many shots where Sherlock and John stood together on a crime scene, and he’d viciously crossed John out with a marker.

Jerry and Vince pleaded down their own charges, but only to shorten their sentences.  The charges still stood.  Of course, this was assuming they didn’t conveniently disappear.

Lestrade sat across from Garret who had his shoulder patched up and was looking pained, but still grinning.

Greg sighed.  “Tell me, why?”

“Why? Because he belongs to me.  Always has, always will, and I couldn’t let him forget that, not with that _replacement_ he has hanging off him now,” Garrett said.

“Replacement?” Sally asked, leaning back, glancing at Greg.

“You people can’t be that daft, look at that doctor!  He’s blond like me, so obviously Sherly was trying to replace me.  He wanted me, he just didn’t know it,” he said with a smile.

“So, you kidnapped, raped, and tortured him to convince the man that it was you he wanted, and not his friend John Watson?” Greg asked, tired beyond belief.

Garrett looked away.  “Pain is a good motivator.  I just had to remind him that I could take it away if he let me, but he wouldn’t take the fucking drugs.”

Greg shook his head at Sally and sighed.  “Garrett, I don’t know what to say.”

With that, they walked out.  Anderson was coming in about then.  “Phillip, got anything for me?” Greg called.

“Um, so I found everything that you wanted…and evidence that he had planned on keeping him confined there indefinitely,” he said, somewhat hesitantly.  “We found quite a collection of IV materials, antibiotics, antivirals, all sorts of hospital grade supplies.  One of the men we apprehended was a doctor paid to be on staff.  He said he was paid to work no questions asked.”

“Leave it to Sherlock to get the _Misery_ treatment…”

-St. Barts-

                The waiting was perhaps the worst thing, and not being in there.  But John didn’t have to wait long.  A woman came to the doorway.

                “Dr. Watson?” she asked and he looked up.  “Um, would you be able to help us with your friend?  He’s not letting us help him much, and if he can’t calm down, we’ll have to sedate him.”

                John nodded.  “Expected,” he said and followed her to a private room.

                He sighed as he looked in first.  Sherlock was sitting in the bed with the look of absolute annoyance on his face.  Every time the nurse came close he’d flinch away and offer some scathing remark.  He looked at the younger nurse.  “How many has he sent running?”

                She briefly looked surprised.  “Um, two have refused to work with him…is this normal?”

                “Sherlock is difficult.”

                He pushed the door open in time to hear the tirade against the male nurse (who was apparently bi and cheating on his boyfriend with a woman, when all he had to do was ask his boyfriend and they could be perfectly happy and polyamorous). 

                “Sherlock.”  The word was low, and spoke volumes and carried an order that even Sherlock didn’t ignore.  Sherlock cut his eyes at him and huffed.  The nurse beside him arched a brow.  “Stop this now, they’re trying to help.  You need stitches, and you’re aggravating the wounds by moving around so much.  You need a full exam, no arguments.  Now.”

                Sherlock scowled but it quickly turned to a pout.  “Can you do the stitches, John?  And the IV? You’re better at it than any of them.”

                John was briefly taken aback by the plaintive tone.  “I’ll talk to the doctors and see what I can do.”  He looked at the nurses.  “Give me a moment, and I’ll see if I can make your life more bearable.”

                It took a bit of convincing and intervention from Mycroft, but he secured permission to handle the lion’s share of Sherlock’s care even while in the hospital. He then looked through the on call doctors quickly to find a female that he knew from a conference that worked with sexual crime victims.  He located her quickly and approached her.  She agreed to see him and rounded up one of her best nurses.  They headed back and John smiled as he entered with the doctor. She dismissed the three nurses trying to get Sherlock to cooperate and pulled a stool up by the bed and spoke with Sherlock in a calm voice.

                “I’m Dr. Angelica Simmons, Sherlock.  John and I know each other from some conferences we’ve attended together.  I’m going to let John hear patch up your back, then we’ll take and x-ray your knee and see where we have to go on that.  Your feet will be x-rayed too, but there isn’t a lot we can do aside from setting them and casting them to let the bones heal.  John can help wrap your ribs.  You were lucky not to have a punctured lung. John says that there may be some other injuries for a sexual assault,” she spoke low and even for Sherlock it was soothing, as much as he wanted to snap at her.

                He nodded.  “Okay, let’s take care of the rest and when you’re stable with all that, I have a more complete exam to do, okay?  We have to access any internal injuries.”

                Before long, or rather what felt like forever, Sherlock was stitched, bandaged, and wrapped.  He was amazed as always at the efficiency and quickness that John worked with. There was a temporary cast on his knee until they decided if surgery was required, and his feet (which had a few small broken bones each) were set in protective boots.  He was tired and not really in the mood for any more poking but the doctor returned with her nurse.  John’s face brokered no argument either.

 


	6. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Complete for now, may expand existing chapters and may add four more eventually, but for the time being, complete.

"Sherlock, now I need you to do what they ask, okay?" John said. He swallowed.

"Why do we have to do this? I mean, it should be quite obvious even to the most idiotic of doctors and nurses…" Sherlock was determined to piss everyone off and get them to leave him the hell alone. John wasn't about to let him.

"No, Sherlock, don't do this right now. I'm going to stay here, and we'll go through this together, okay?" John said, gripping his shaking hand.

Dr. Simmons situated herself beside the bed. "Sherlock, I'm going to ask some questions. I need you to answer them as best as you can both for me, but also because this report goes to the officers on your case."

Sherlock turned to John again and he shook his head stubbornly. "No, answer, please, I'm begging you. I want this guy to go away, and you're going to have to help if you want him to go away too."

"Okay," he said, finally, and the tone crashed over John. It was so…defeated. So decidedly un-Sherlock.

"Okay, Sherlock, can you tell me basically what happened?" she asked, flipping the page.

"Uh, I was hit on the head and I woke up and Garrett was there and he wanted me to start back in the life like when…when I was on drugs before, but I…I refused. We also had a sexual relationship, but…it wasn't really so much consensual on my part then either…" he said soflty.

"So, Garrett has done this to you before? Forced you into nonconsensual sex?"

Sherlock swallowed and nodded. "He…he started me on drugs…and then…I had to p-pay…b-but I didn't want them, even then…and I got away."

"Okay, let's worry about what happened this time. What happened when you woke up?"

"He asked if I wanted drugs and I argued with him, and he said he wasn't going to be nice and then…he raped me first," he said, his eyes far away.

"Did he penetrate you anally with his penis?" she asked, ever clinical, ever the doctor.

"Yes," he said nodding.

"Did he ejaculate inside you?"

"Yes, they all did…" he said softly.

"You had more than one attacker that sexually assaulted you?"

"Yes, th-the other two…" he said, still somewhat vacant.

"Okay, what happened there?" she asked.

"The whip guy, the one that lashed me, he-he put thirty lashes on me, and th-then he used it on me there too…"

"He penetrated you with the whip?" she asked. Sherlock nodded hesitantly. "Okay, that is important, because objects can be even more damaging. Is that all he did?"

Sherlock swallowed. "He-he put himself in with it…"

She blinked. "He penetrated you with both his penis and the whip at the same time?" she asked, glancing at John with a worried glance. He nodded, barely holding to his thready thoughts. He couldn't lose it just telling a dumb doctor what happened. Distance, he yelled at himself. Distance, look from the outside, like it is just another case.

"Okay," she said. "You said he also ejaculated inside you?" Sherlock nodded again, his hand tightening its grip on Johns. "Now, there was another?"

"V-vince, he broke my knee and my ribs and used a hammer to break the bones in the top of my foot, then he-he did it too…but I don't remember I was in too much pain…I know he ejaculated inside but I was almost unconscious…" he said softly.

"Alright, Sherlock, thank you, you did very well for someone that's gone through a lot. Now we're going to do the exam, and I'll collect the evidence kit. Do you have any questions? I know you often work with the police, so are you familiar with this process?" she asked.

"I…I work mostly on murders," he said softly, still far too soft for John's liking.

"Okay, John, will you help him scoot down, I know his back is painful, so I'll try to hurry the process. Sherlock, I have to check for internal tearing, and from what you described it is likely present. I have to see if it needs stitches or if it will heal on its own. Since an object was used, I also have to make sure there are no perforations to the bowel. Are you experiencing or experienced any sharp pains in your abdomen since you were attacked?" she asked, pulling on gloves and unsealing the kit beside her on the tray.

"No," he said. "But I've been on pain meds because of the bones since I got here."

"Okay, that's fine. Now, thanks John," she said as they had maneuvered him to the rather uncomfortable position at the end of the table. "Now, I have to take the swabs and to do that I need to put your feet in these," she said, shifting him.

Sherlock had never felt so entirely vulnerable in his whole life. He swallowed and buried his head into John's arm, biting his lip. This was almost as embarrassing as the ordeal, he thought to himself. Why had he agreed to this? Oh, John. If it weren't for John he'd skipped the entire hospital.

"This is going to be uncomfortable, but it won't take very long, I promise," she said, and Sherlock stiffened at the intrusion of the instrument. John knew it was uncomfortable, and probably more than a little painful. "Okay, I'm collecting the swabs now, you've got several tears to the inner walls, but nothing that is going to need stitching, it will be very sore for a few days. You do have a tear to the sphincter muscle that is going to take a couple stitches when I'm done with the collection. It isn't uncommon with a violent attack like you suffered." There was a clang as she removed the speculum and put it aside.

"A small pinch, lidocaine," she said, and he jerked. Small pinch, indeed, was that needle the size of a straw?

A few minutes and strange tugging sensations later, she dropped the sheet down and came around to finish the other collections, nails, hair, and he had to endure them most strange act of having his pubic hair combed for evidence and pieces cut away. This was incredibly degrading, he thought to himself. Far worse than being raped, he thought. No wonder so many men and women never went to the A&E afterward, of course that also explained why so many rapists went free. He looked at John who was smiling gently at him. John was happy, it seemed, he was proud of him. And he felt the pride in his chest. She left finally and John helped him to his side off the incredibly painful mess that was his entire back.

"John, I think I'm truly done with anyone touching me for a while," he said finally.

"Do you want me to go?" John asked, pulling the chair up beside his face.

"No, I want you to stay," he said, reaching out and grabbing his hand franticly almost. "Please, I need you here, I just…all of that…I…I need you and that's it. Nobody else, just you."

John was surprised, more than a little. "Okay, I'll stay here. You want to talk?" he asked softly, moving closer.

"I said no, every time. He wanted…he wanted me to beg him for the drugs, that's what he wanted to make me beg him and then I'd…I'd be his all over again…Even, even when he broke my knee…I told him no. I wouldn't take them," he said, and if John hadn't seen it he wouldn't believe the tears glistening in the man's eyes. "I…I knew you'd be upset with me if I took the drugs."

John blinked. "Sherlock, I couldn't blame you for taking drugs for that kind of pain…you had to be in a terrible lot of it…you still have to be even with the non-narcotics they've given you."

Sherlock shook his head. "There's no going back on that road, I couldn't…I couldn't disappoint you, John. What you think…it means more to me than everyone else."

John sighed and reached out and brushed the dark curls out of his face. "Sherlock, you are a brilliant and amazing idiot sometimes," he said softly.

"Are…are you going to leave me, John?" he asked, suddenly gray eyes wide with barely disguised fear.

John frowned and shook his head. "Of course not, Sherlock, why would I do that?"

He dropped his head and sighed. "I just…I'm so…dirty. The drugs, the…sex…why would you want to stay around me anymore?"

John sighed deeply, thinking carefully about the answer. "Sherlock, I don't care what happened to you. I care about you. And it seems quite obvious that you share that sentiment. I'm growing more and more attached to you, you big bloody idiot," he said, sighing again and laying his hands on Sherlock's face and pressing his forehead against his own.

"Am I intruding?" came a voice from the doorway.

John sat up and shook his head. "Of course, not Mycroft," he said with a smile at Sherlock's brother. "Thank you for your help today."

Mycroft nodded and looked his brother over. He looked worse than he had when he'd picked him up out of Garrett's clutches the last time. He sighed.

"Sherlock, how are you feeling?" he asked.

Sherlock glared at him, and Mycroft saw the dampness around his eyes and knew that he wasn't as good as he would admit to being. "Fine, just great, Mycroft, how do you think I am?"

Mycroft blinked. Well, that was a different reaction than he expected. But he was sure that his brother was going to be emotionally unstable. "I wanted to tell you that I'm remaining in London for the next week or so, if you wanted to come visit the estate for a few days…"

Sherlock shook his head. "I'll stay with John…" he said, and he caught the slight disappointment cross Mycroft's face. "But, you can come visit at Baker St if you want to, and I won't mind."

Mycroft's brow knitted and he nodded. That was…unexpected. "Very well, brother, mine. I'll visit you in a couple days. Please, do listen to John and heal before you go chasing murder suspects again. I do worry so."

With that, he left, leaving John and Sherlock alone for a while again. It was quiet but soon Sherlock's hand wrapped around John's slowly and intertwined the fingers. He laid his head on top of their interlocked hands and before John knew it, he'd fallen asleep like that, cheek pressed into John's hand. He smiled fondly at him. He'd never seen him so vulnerable before. All the walls, all the barriers he used to keep others at bay, they were gone. And now…now he wasn't sure what to do. So he stayed there.

Sometime later he woke up and realized he'd fallen asleep with his head on the bed beside Sherlock's. His hand was completely numb, but it was still clutched in Sherlock's hand. He looked asleep, but he knew better. "Sherlock," he whispered.

"John?" the dark haired detective answered.

"You want to tell me something."

"Do...do you think that I could…could love you?" he asked, hesitantly, eyes still closed.

John smiled, reaching with his other hand and brushing his hair back from his face. "Of course, Sherlock."

"How do you know? I can't love, I haven't a heart," he said quietly.

"You have a heart, Sherlock. And I'll take care of it because it is so, so fragile," John said, brushing a hand over Sherlock's face.

His eyes fluttered open and he started up at the blue ones staring back at him. "You will take care of it?"

"Of course, Sherlock. Don't I always take care of you? I'll take care of every part of you. That beautiful mind, that fragile heart, and one of these days, that lovely body of yours. I never thought of it, but I've fallen in love with you, strange as it seems. Her I am a straight man in love with you," he said, shaking his head.

"But…if you're straight…how can you love me? I'm a man, so if you love me doesn't that make you gay?" Sherlock asked, confused by these weighty matters of the heart.

"You're a fool. I still am straight, except for you, you bloody fool. I love no other men but you."

So John pressed a gentle kiss to very slack and surprised lips. Sherlock blinked and nodded slowly. "You mean that? That you really love me?"

"Of course."

"Okay, because I've loved you for a long time, John, I just didn't know how to say it…and I was scared, so afraid that after Garrett, you wouldn't want me…" he said.

John shook his head. "Sherlock, the past is past. Forward is the direction. Tomorrow, we will step out together, and I'll take care of you for the rest of our lives. Every part of you, understand?"

Sherlock smiled softly and nodded, nuzzling his cheek into John's open palm. "I think so."


End file.
